


On the tip of an arrow

by Adara_Rose



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Attempt(s), F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-08
Updated: 2016-09-08
Packaged: 2018-08-13 21:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7986250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adara_Rose/pseuds/Adara_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the fate of the world hangs of the tip of an arrow. Especially if that arrow is aimed at the heart of a young bride on the morn of her wedding.</p>
<p>This is what would have happened if Fate had intervened.</p>
<p>Companion piece to "The Blue Wedding".</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the tip of an arrow

**Author's Note:**

> this is both a stand-alone and the teaser to a more extensive work in the fandom. So... you can leave it here or keep an eye on my profile for that.

_ Sometimes, the fate of the world rests on the tip of an arrow. Or rather, it depends on whether or not that arrow finds its mark. For example, if that arrow is meant to pierce the heart of a young bride on the morn of her wedding. For in one version of events, that arrow flew straight and true and killed the young bride instantly. But Fate, seeing what she had woven, was most displeased. Taking her scissors, she cut the weft and rethreaded, instead letting the arrow pierce the bride’s shoulder. A grave wound, yes, but not life-threatening. And so the world changed, shifted, twisted. All for the sake of the tip of an arrow.  _

_ But we are getting ahead of ourselves. _

_ Where are we to begin, then? At the bride’s birth, perhaps. Let our story begin when Lord Tyrell takes his first-born daughter into his arms and falls instantly in love, giving her the sweetest name he can think of; Eilonwy. Or is that too early. How about when she is five years old and her grandmother takes great interest in the child, seeing a master puppeteer in the making?  _

_ Too soon as well, perhaps. Let us begin, instead, when she is a maid of fourteen and her father has just informed her of what her future holds. Yes. Let us begin there. _

 

* * *

 

 

“I will not have him!” Eilonwy Tyrell shrieked hysterically for the third time, wild sobs tearing themselves from her throat. “You cannot make me!”

For once, Lord Mace did not immediately give in at the sight of his daughter’s distress, instead he levelled her with a stern look.

“I can and you will, daughter.” He said in a voice that brokered no argument. He was more than done with the girl’s tantrum. “It has all been arranged.”

“I would rather rut with the entire North Watch than ride the stallion that mounts-!” her father's hand striking her cheek stopped Eilonwy cold mid-screech.

“You hold your tongue, insolent girl!” Lord Mace thundered as his fist connected with the desk, sending ink pots and scrolls flying. “I will not have such talk from my daughter, especially not about her husband!” 

Eilonwy's sobs became even more hysterical, but Mace would not relent. When she realised, to her dismay, that tears would have no effect this time she turned heel and ran, her cries echoing through the halls. 

Loras, who had been standing outside the door and listening to the entire spectacle, slipped in to watch his father with worried eyes. Lord Mace was leaning against the desk top, a world weary look on his weathered face.

“Come, child” he said gently as he saw the boy, “are you hiding from Master Rivers again?”

Loras ignored the rhetorical question, more focused on what he had overheard. 

“Why does Eilonwy not want to marry?”

“She does, child. Every woman wants to marry. She is just cross that I am not letting her get her way.”

“But Eilonwy is never cross!”

“That is where you are wrong, my boy. Your sister gets cross quite often. She just does not let on.” He smiled and ruffled his son's hair. “She will get over it. She always does.”

 

* * *

 

 

Eilonwy wiped her tears and inspected the damage. Her normally pale face was blotchy from crying, her bright red hair and elegant clothes dishevelled. Not at all lady-like. Grandmother would not be pleased. She drew a deep breath and felt her eyes burn again.  _ Lannister! _ The sister-fucker! There were outrageous rumours and ill words flying wildly about him and his twin Cersei, and now father wanted her to be part of the spectacle. Wanted her to be Jaimes wife! What a joke, the man would not even visit the whore houses. It would be a miracle if he could even get it up with another woman! Helpless in her fury, Eilonwy picked up her fine silver hair brush and threw it at her mirror. It cracked, and as she watched the fine lines spread towards the edges her brain started working. Grandmother had taught her well, and it was time to put those lessons to use.  _ Play the part of a loyal wife and doting mother, and that is all they see _ , grandmother had said.  _ They will not for a moment suspect the web you are weaving until they are caught _ . 

She thought of the proud, haughty Cersei that always made her feel inferior, stupid and useless. Eilonwy hated her with a passion as intense as the colour of her red hair, and now she would have to smile and curtsy and call the woman sister. Never! 

But then she remembered something else that grandmother had said, and a wicked little smirk touched her lips as she picked up the brush and started untangling her crimson curls.  _ If you want to truly hurt someone, take what they love away from them,  _ grandmother had advised her. Eilonwy nodded at her reflection, who still looked dreadful but not as hysterical as previously. She was going to do just that. She thought of the proud, haughty Cersei. She would ruin her. The first step, was taking Jaime. 

“Oh dear” she murmured as she came to a sudden realisation. “I shall have to make him fall in love with me.”

 

* * *

 

 

And so it was, that at the tender age of fourteen Eilonwy began a campaign to capture the heart of Jaime Lannister. Having been taught well the games of seduction and manipulation from both her mother and grandmother, she set about her quest with a ruthless tenacity admired by five star generals. She began by laughing in his face when he presented her with a fine necklace as a first courting gift.

“What a pretty bauble!” She cried in delight as she held it up for all to see, “it shall fit Pup most wonderfully - thank you, Lannister!” Pup was her dog, who was snoring softly at his mistress’ feet. The look on Jaime’s face was one of indignant, helpless rage - but he could not afford to make any sort of scene in front of the gathered nobles, who had all come to celebrate the betrothal of Lord Lannister’s eldest son. Instead, he gritted his teeth and muttered something about being pleased she liked it. On the inside, Eilonwy crowed in victory, but she did not let on with as much as a twitch of her lips. 

The second time she had a chance to speak to Lannister, he asked her for a walk in the garden and with a sweet smile and innocent-sounding remark she swiftly managed to make him come off as a cad wanting to get his wicked way with her. 

The first letter he sent she returned to him within days. On the bottom, in her neat handwriting, she stated that it was a very fine letter however she did not appreciate being sent missives clearly meant for someone else. She went on asking him to please apologize to Cersei on her behalf for having read her private correspondence. Jaime ripped it to shreds, fuming. The insolence! How dared she!

The third time he met Eilonwy, a week after she had returned his letter, he was quite surprised to be met with a sweet smile and what seemed like an honestly pleased welcome to her father’s castle. She had been all smiles and when they had walked in Lord Tyrell’s garden she had tucked her arm under his and listened to his conversation with unending patience. She had been quite exquisite that day, dressed in a fine green gown and with matching ribbons in her hair. 

That evening, she had told her father that Jaime was, while horrifyingly self-absorbed and a hopeless conversationalist, not bad to look at. “I suppose we will have pretty, if rather dull children” was her verdict. Jaime fumed.

When he went to complain to his father, he was met with a slap to the face. “If you cannot control your wife, what sort of man are you?” Lannister sneered in disgust, and Jaime could do little but make himself scarce until his father’s bad temper dissipated. He sought comfort with Cersei, who clearly hated the Tyrell bitch as much as he did.

The first letter from Eilonwy took Jaime quite by surprise; it was shortly after his third visit, and it was honestly apologetic. She wrote that she felt intimidated by the expectations on her to be a good wife, and would he please consider this a peace offering?

She sent back his next two letters unopened.

* * *

 

 

When they next spoke face to face, it was a rather irate Jaime who dragged her into a secluded part of the garden and demanded to know what in the blazes she was doing, turning them both into a public spectacle.

Eilonwy looked at him with her wide, wide blue eyes and said, calmly:

“Considering your nightly activities, being made a spectacle of should come as no shock to you, Lannister.”

Jaime froze.

“I do not know what you are implying.” He denied fiercely.

“You know exactly what that means. It means that you and your precious sister would not know discretion if it slapped you in the face.” There was a glimmer of disgust in her eyes.

“It is none of your business” he replied hotly.

“On the contrary.” Her voice was as cold as ice. “I am to be your wife. If you want to partake in the most base act known to man, then by all means go ahead, but I will  _ not _ permit you to make a fool out of me. I will  _ not _ be the wife who fails so miserably at satisfying her husband he  _ fucks his sister instead!” _ Jaime stared at the girl in front of him, her flashing eyes and the red spots on her cheeks. She was magnificent in her rage. He could not resist kissing her.

The resounding slap that was the immediate consequence did not deter him from doing it again. And again. And again, until she was soft and pliable in his arms, her head tucked under his chin.

“I will not have you make a spectacle of me” she whispered into his shirt.

“I won’t” he promised. “If you will stop making a fool out of me.”

“Agreed.”

 

* * *

 

 

The spring flew by with wedding preparations, letters and exchanged gifts, and it was not long before summer was upon them. The date of the wedding had been set to midsummer’s eve, which was also by some sort of coincidence Eilonwy’s fifteenth birthday. Which coincidentally, was also the day the fate of the world hung on the tip of an arrow.

It was early morning, but the entire Tyrell household was in a frenzy with activity. Everyone, from the Lord himself to the lowliest of chamber maids wanted to make this day perfect for the Lady Eilonwy, and no expense was to be spared. But there was one soul in the keep that was not aflutter, and that was the man waiting in the darkened corner of the great wall just outside Lady Eilonwy’s bedroom window. 

This man stood as still as a statue, his bow ready, the bowstring taut, and an arrow ready to be fired. He did not know it, but on the tip of that arrow rested the fate of the world. He had stood here many mornings, but not until this day did he feel confident in that it would find its target. He waited for the moment when she would open the shutters, as she did every morning. She would stand for a few moments and bask in the early morning sun, and this was when he would strike. He only had one chance, and it must not go wrong. His arrow had to fly good and true. It’s goal was Eilonwy Tyrell’s young heart. 

He waited, the noises and chaos of the inhabitants of the castle were like the distant humming of insects; it did not become him. 

He waited. 

The window opened.

 

_ Fate frowned her displeasure at her design and picked up her scissors. _

 

The man with the bow let the arrow fly. 

 

_ Fate cut the weft.  _


End file.
